CHAPTER 34

The day before the school year ended, Joe and his mom left for New York. They would spend a few days with his aunt and uncle in his old neighborhood before the ceremony on May 30. I tried not to think about him having fun with Arham, going to all the places they used to go, like Owl Head’s Park, or having an egg cream at Hinsch’s.

The first official day of summer vacation, I pedaled to the edge of town where they were building the frame of the new library. The sounds of saws singing and nail guns popping filled the air. Dad said the rest of the construction would go faster now. Usually that would be exciting, but nothing seemed worth celebrating.

Deep in thought, I rode away from the worksite and somehow ended up at the courthouse basement door, in front of the Antler Public Library sign. The library would be closed soon to prepare for the move across town. I wanted to take a last look around.

“Hello.” The voice came from somewhere behind the stacks of boxes and books. A tall young woman with blond curly hair and a cheerful face emerged from the spot where the checkout counter used to be.

“Hi,” I answered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone would be here.”

“Can I help you?” Her voice was as friendly as her face, almost as if it were suppressing giggles.

“I used to come here all the time.”

“Come back for a last look?”

“Yes, I guess.” My timing was late. I wished I’d visited sooner. “Are you the new librarian?”

“I sure am. My name is Kennedy Parsons.”

“I’m Rylee Wilson.” I held out my hand, and she gave it a nice firm shake.

“My dad didn’t tell me you’d started. You may have met him. He’s on the building committee. His name is Toby Wilson.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Wilson. He interviewed me first.”

“Are you from the Panhandle?”

“Yes, I’m from Borger.”

That explained the good firm handshake.

“So it’s not so different there,” she said. “Well, bigger for sure.”

“For sure,” I said. Then we both laughed.

“But I’ve driven through Antler lots of times, and I always thought it was a cute town. So charming—like the opry house.”

“That’s my grandmother’s. Opalina Wilson.”

“Oh, I love that!”

“Do you like country music?”

“Well…,” she said, “I’m a bit of an indie rock fan. Sorry.”

Twig was going to love knowing that.

“But I’ve already had the best bowl of pho here that I’ve ever eaten.”

“At the Bowl-a-Rama Café?”

“Yes, I met Ferris and Mr. Pham. I’m going to enjoy living here.”

I thought about how Kennedy’s first impression of Antler was a lot different than Joe’s. Maybe some people were meant for small towns. And some people weren’t.

“Have a look around if you like,” she said. “I’m taking inventory so I can know what to order.”

“Thanks.” I took in the space, gazing over to the spot where I used to sit when I wanted to get away and escape in a book. Even though I hadn’t spent much time here in the last couple of years, I was going to miss this place.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with. Although you’ve spent a lot more time here than me. I may have to ask you a question.”

“Can we still dial up the Internet?” I asked.

“Sure, changing the service will be one of the last things we do. Would you like to use it?”

As I made my way to the computer, she said, “We’ll have three computers in the new library. Miss Myrtie Mae Pruitt was a generous woman.”

I settled in front of the computer, entering my account number and password. Even though I had closed the door on the search, I found myself typing the words Zachary Beaver. After his name, I slowly typed obituary. My finger hovered over the enter button, but I couldn’t do it. I hit the back key and removed the word, one letter at a time. Then I deleted his name and started over.

There were well over a hundred Zachary Beavers in the United States, but this time I searched for “Zachary Elvis Beaver” in the White Pages. Results: zero.

Then I tried “Zachary E. Beaver.”

Results: four.

The entries included their approximate ages. I didn’t know how old Zachary was, but I figured he was about Dad’s age. Dad would turn forty-four in a couple of weeks. There was only one Zachary E. Beaver identified in his forties—age forty-six, living in Tampa, Florida.

And there was a phone number.

I stared at it. My heart felt like it was running the fifty-yard dash. Why hadn’t we thought of searching for him in the White Pages again after we’d learned his middle name? It would have been so easy.

I scribbled the number down on a notepad, thanked Kennedy, and started to leave. Then I turned and said, “Welcome to Antler!”